Prey to All (25 page)

‘I don’t see why not. I’ll let you know how it goes with the channel commissioners this morning.’

‘Anna, I’ve …’

‘Don’t go yet.’ Anna’s voice was dangerous enough to make Trish hold on.

‘Be quick.’

‘I want your word, Trish – your solemn promise – that you won’t tip off either Phil Redstone or Dr Foscutt.’

Trish was silent.

‘Trish, I have to make you do this. Say you promise.’

‘Anna, I can’t deal with this now.’

‘Then tell me you promise not to talk to them today. And we can sort it out this evening. Will you at least promise me that much, Trish?’

Trish felt as though she were being pulled apart.

‘Just till this evening. Haven’t we been friends long enough for you to give me that much?’

‘Yes,’ she said at once. Put like that, there wasn’t much else she could say. ‘Till this evening.’

“Bye, Trish.’

Trish made breakfast and went to dress. It seemed too hot to put on her tights and shoes until she absolutely had
to, so she pattered down the spiral staircase in her bare feet. She could feel each bump and roughness in the cold iron treads.

Downstairs, George was tucking into toast and coffee. ‘Come and sit down and have something to eat for once, Trish. I really don’t know how you get through the day without either breakfast or lunch.’ He set about adding a lavish layer of butter to his next slice of toast. ‘I’d be dead.’

Trish sat sipping black coffee, watching him tucking in. ‘There’s not as much of me to keep going,’ she said cheerfully.

‘You are a monster. Who was your call from?’

She looked at him from under her lashes as she drank her coffee.

‘It’s OK, Trish. Last night I was feeling a bit weak, I admit it. But this morning I’m as tough as you like. You can tell me. Something about your Gibbert case, I presume?’

She nodded and reached for one of his slices of toast. ‘Tell me about what you’ve got on today,’ she commanded, ‘while I eat this.’

He laughed, but he did sketch in a light-hearted account of the clients he was supposed to see later, and a couple of his more difficult partners, and a new outdoor clerk.

‘I wish we could persuade him to take up the law as a career,’ he added. ‘He’s a bright lad, but he’s on his way to drama school in September. Clearly thinks we’re all barking mad. He can hardly keep from laughing at the lot of us all day.’

‘He’s got something, George. No solicitor is entirely right in the head.’

‘At least we’re not a bunch of leaky mountebanks like you lot at the Bar.’

‘Mountebanks!’ Trish was laughing as she tried to swallow the last corner of naked toast. ‘What a ludicrous word! Anyone would think you were a hundred and ten.’

George was about to retaliate when they heard the post thump on the mat. He wiped his mouth on his napkin and went off to fetch it for her. Trish accepted the pile, which included a fattish Jiffy-bag, with a smile and put it at the far end of the table.

‘Oh, go on, open it,’ he said, hauling open
The Times
, which he had picked up from the mat at the same time. ‘I don’t mind.’

Trish raised her eyebrows at the unresponsive newspaper and ripped open the envelopes, piling bills in one heap, letters to be answered in another, and dropping the empty envelopes and the exasperating circulars and advertisements on the floor. At the bottom she came to the Jiffy-bag.

Inside it was a bundle of letters in the kind of shaky but elegant writing an elderly person might produce, along with a note in much more modern scrawl.

Trish hardly noticed that George had poured more coffee into her cup. She picked it up and drank as she read what Helen Whatlam had written to her granddaughter.

The letters were, as Kate had originally said, evidence of a
kind, sensitive woman. They didn’t say much about her own life, except to describe what was out in the garden and which friends she had recently seen, but they offered Kate a lot of helpful, sound advice for dealing with bullying schoolmates and unhappy siblings. To Trish they were redolent of the kind of common sense and gentleness that Meg had always given her. But there was nothing revelatory in any of them, until the last.

‘And that,’ Trish said aloud, ‘is presumably how the astemizole got into Ian Whatlam.’

George put down the paper and smiled to show how receptive he was. But Trish thought he’d listened enough for one breakfast and told him they ought to be getting to work.

While she was going through her post in chambers, the phone rang. It was Meg. ‘So,’ she said straight away, ‘what’s the problem?’

‘Nothing,’ Trish said, making herself concentrate on work
and Deb. ‘I’ve got a big workload at the moment, but I’m ploughing through it.’

‘Don’t waste my time, Trish,’ Meg said. ‘Or your own. You were all of a doo-dah the other day when Mike Bridge was here. And it’s nothing to do with work. You’d been to see Paddy, hadn’t you? Did he upset you?’

‘We should have got past all this ESP by now.’

‘I think I’ll always know when something’s hurt you, Trish,’ Meg said, in her usual matter-of-fact voice. There was nothing sentimental about her. ‘What did he say?’

‘He told me he used to beat you up.’

There was a pause, but it was very short. ‘Not very often, Trish. In fact, only once, really badly.’

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

‘Come on. He’s your father, you’re half his. I hate those women who slag off their husbands to their children. It’s not the children’s fault if the marriage has gone bad. And it’s not fair to make your child feel responsible for her other parent’s misdeeds.’

It was breathtaking. Literally. Trish had to make herself suck in air.

‘Sometimes I think you ought to write a guide to good mothering,’ she said lightly. ‘But why, how, and how did you bear it?’

‘It’s ancient history. He made me angry, Trish, and I didn’t know how to deal with it, and so I let myself gee him up. He—’

‘Don’t blame yourself.’ The words came out with an urgency that shocked even Trish. ‘Victimised women always do that. It’s how the whole syndrome works. You—’

‘Stop it, Trish, and listen.’ Meg was sharp enough to be obeyed. ‘We played stupid destructive games, Paddy and I. I didn’t understand them then, but I do now. He likes drama, as you know. That’s why he’s always falling in love. He likes
the passion and the excitement, and he enjoys raising people’s demons. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

‘Not entirely,’ Trish said. But she had a fair idea. She’d done a bit of it herself in the past, until she’d understood.

‘We all have them living in the primeval swamp, somewhere in our subconscious. D’you know what I’m talking about now?’

‘I suppose.’

‘Well, Paddy likes digging them up and watching them frolic. What he’s not interested in is seeing them for what they are, hosing them down, and making them walk calmly side by side with someone else’s.’

‘And that’s what you and Bernard …?’

‘That’s what anyone in a successful relationship has to do, Trish.’ There was enough quiet emphasis in the words to make her understand that Meg had wanted to say this for a long time. Trish made an encouraging noise, which was all she could manage.

‘If the pair of you can’t make your demons walk in a well-behaved crocodile, then there’s no hope. Not in the long-term, anyway.’

Trish was struggling. She knew what Meg meant, but the implications were more than she wanted to deal with just then.

‘I’m not sure there are all that many well-behaved crocodiles, Mum,’ she said. ‘And if there’s ever been any animal more like a demon in the primeval swamp than a crocodile, well-behaved or otherwise, I’ve never heard of it.’

‘You’ll work it out, Trish,’ said Meg, adding casually, ‘Bring George for Sunday lunch one weekend. Bernard likes him, too.’

Caroline and Jess were eating cold chicken and dill mayonnaise on the roof terrace of the flat, watching the sun turn the sky the colour of smoked salmon behind the high-rise flats across the road. Jess had only one more day’s filming to go, then she would be back signing on and going after every possible audition. But she seemed much more sanguine than usual at this stage. And she was pleased with the work she had done, which always made her happy.

‘That was great, Jess,’ Caroline said, licking the last of the mayonnaise off her fork. ‘Thanks.’

‘I … Oh, bloody hell, sodding, fucking hell,’ said Jess, as Caroline’s mobile cheeped on the teak bench beside her.

‘Sorry. Got to answer.’

‘I know. It’s a murder. I’ll get the fruit. Don’t move.’

‘Sergeant Lyalt,’ Caroline said into the phone, watching Jess’s slim back view disappear into the flat.

‘This is Georgina Painswick. You left a message for me to call a couple of days ago. I’m afraid we’ve only just got back from Spain. Is it about my brother, Henry Crackenfield?’

‘Thank you for phoning back, Mrs Painswick. No, it’s not in fact about your brother. I wanted to ask for some background information about Malcolm Chaze, the MP who was shot last week. I take it you do know he’s dead?’

‘Naturally. But I doubt if there’s much I can tell you. I
haven’t seen him since I was in my teens. What made you think I could help?’

‘We’ve been collecting the names of all his girlfriends and talking to each one.’

Georgina Painswick snorted. ‘I was hardly a girlfriend. It was a Christmas holiday fling when I was too young to know any better.’

‘Why did it end?’

‘Because term started,’ she said crisply. ‘I went back to school, and so did he.’

‘Did he ever talk to you about drugs?’

There was silence, broken eventually by a sigh. ‘You must know that he did, if you’ve got on to me. This is what it’s all about, isn’t it?’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Oh, come on.’ She sounded angry. ‘It’s not
my
relationship with Malcolm you’re interested in, but Henry’s.’

‘Why do you say that? Did your brother try to introduce Malcolm Chaze to drugs?’

Caroline hardly noticed Jess coming back with two large flat bowls filled with raspberries.

Georgina Painswick laughed unpleasantly. ‘Can it really be possible that you don’t know?’

‘No. I don’t understand what’s amusing you so much, either.’

‘There’s nothing remotely amusing about this. Malcolm Chaze never had any money.’

‘So?’

‘And Hen and I were spending quite a lot that Christmas holidays. We’d inherited a bit from a kind of trust our grandfather had set up. Not a real income, but more than just an allowance. There were a lot of parties that year, and we all needed to pay for clothes and drinks and taxis. I think we even went to Annabel’s once. Malc hated being left out, or
looking wrong, or not being able to pay his share, so he needed some cash.’ Mrs Painswick paused.

Caroline thought she knew at last where this was going, but she didn’t want to lead her witness. ‘OK,’ she said. ‘What happened?’

‘Malc got hold of some heroin from somewhere and started trying to flog it. He had a go at me, but luckily I was scared enough to refuse.’

‘I thought he’d always been fanatically antidrugs,’ Caroline protested.

‘Filthy hypocrite. I can tell you, Sergeant Lyalt, that when I read in the paper that he’d been shot by a drug-dealer I thought it was poetic justice, I really did.’

‘We did hear that he had once experimented himself and had a bad time. Was that while you knew him?’

‘Male take heroin? You have to be joking. He wasn’t going to shoot up his profits. He was only ever in it for the money.’

‘So when did he start being so vociferously anti-drugs?’

‘When he decided to go in for politics and was afraid that his past might catch up with him, the slimy bastard. D’you know what he did then? Have you any idea?’

Jess was beginning to get restive on the bench opposite Caroline’s, but this was far too important to risk interrupting. Caroline got up with the phone held against her ear and went indoors in search of pen and paper. She heard Jess’s voice behind her but ignored it.

‘No, Mrs Painswick. What did he do?’

‘Went round to my parents’ house to call on them and tell them that he was trying to get into Parliament in order to put something back, make up for what he’d done, and said that he wanted them to forgive him for wrecking Hen’s life.’ Each word came out as though it had been spat.

‘How had he done that?’

‘You must know. For God’s sake, he made my brother buy
heroin, watched him get addicted and introduced him to a real-life big-time dealer to carry on where he, Malc, had left off.’

‘What?’

‘Now d’you understand?’

‘Yes, I think so. Tell me, did your parents know what Malcolm Chaze had done?’

‘Of course they did. Hen could never keep anything to himself; and he was rather proud of being a friend of Malc’s. Old Malc was always a charismatic bugger, even at school. That’s why Hen did what he wanted in the first place, and bought the bloody stuff off him. Listen, Sergeant, that man deserved shooting – in fact, he deserved a whole lot worse. Don’t waste your sympathy.’

‘Mrs Painswick, why didn’t your parents ever expose him?’

‘Because they’re too damned decent, and probably because they didn’t want to betray Hen’s weakness to the world. But when Malc came on his creepy quest for forgiveness, my father gave him an ultimatum: stay away from drugs; keep your nose clean; stick to the party line if you ever do get accepted by a constituency; accept the whip; and do not ever come anywhere near any member of our family again. My father said he told Malc that if he ever stepped out of line the whole story would go straight to Central Office.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Painswick. Thank you very much indeed. You’ve been very helpful. I hope you enjoyed your holiday.’

‘It was terrific, thank you, especially once I’d heard that Malcolm Chaze was dead.’

‘Right. I must go now. Thank you for your help. Goodbye.’ Caroline was already dialling the number of Femur’s mobile as she ran back to the roof terrace. ‘Jess, darling, I’ve got to go.’

A metallic voice told her that it wasn’t possible to connect the call.

‘I’m really sorry about the raspberries. I hope tomorrow goes fantastically well for you. I’ll be back as soon as I can. I love you.’

Caroline ran out of the flat. The lift didn’t move when she whacked the button, so she ran down all six flights of stairs. Even so, she was hardly panting as she unlocked the car. All that weight training and running had paid off.

She drove to Femur’s house, praying that he hadn’t hit the whisky or gone out to the pub. There were lights on downstairs. She couldn’t understand why he’d switched off his phone. The car had never been so badly parked before, but she didn’t want to waste time straightening it. She didn’t even lock it, just ran up to the front door to ring the bell and bang the knocker.

‘Hold on,’ Femur shouted. He didn’t sound plastered. Thank God for that. She waited. She waited a full five minutes, punctuated by the occasional reassurance that he would be coming in a moment. At last she heard footsteps and then the door opened. He looked stone cold sober and a lot happier.

‘Cally?’ He sounded surprised. ‘What’s up?’

‘You all right, Guv?’

‘Yes. Why?’

‘Five minutes to answer the door?’

‘Was it that long? Sorry.’ His smile was almost blinding and his eyes were gleaming like diamonds again. ‘That was Sue on the phone. She’s coming back.’

‘Great. But now we’ve got to go back to the Crackenfields’. I’ll explain on the way. I’ll drive.’ She suddenly realised how momentous his news must have seemed and took the time to smile properly at him. ‘It’s really great about Sue, Guv. But let me tell you what I’ve just learned.’

She could hardly bear the time he needed to put his shoes back on and lock all the windows he’d opened to cool the
house off after a day’s stultifying heat. At last he was ready. Even then he wouldn’t let her start her explanation until they were sitting in her car and she was heading towards Pimlico.

‘And so,’ he said, at the end of her breathless outpouring, ‘you think it’s possible that Crackenfield had Chaze shot after his own son died of the drugs that Chaze had introduced him to?’

‘Yes. Steve Owler’s notes show that Crackenfield spent all his working life in the army and still has close links with his regiment. He could easily have heard the names of squaddies who’d come out and gone underground.’

‘That does happen,’ Femur admitted. ‘Yes, it is a possible answer. We’ll have to look into it.’

 

It was nearly ten by the time they were parked outside the Crackenfields’ house. Femur let Caroline go up the steps first. The door was opened by Mrs Crackenfield, looking just as elegant but even more washed-out than the first time they’d been there. She was wearing a discreet black dress with three-quarter-length sleeves and pearls. As she recognised them, she produced a tiny smile.

‘Sergeant Lyalt, what a pleasure. But could this wait until the morning? My husband and I have relatives with us tonight. We’re in the middle of dinner – I mean, we’ve just got to the pudding stage.’

‘I’m really sorry, Mrs Crackenfield,’ Caroline said, ‘but we need to have a word with your husband. It won’t take long, but we do need to speak to him tonight. Now, in fact. I wonder if you could maybe give your guests their pudding while we talk to him somewhere else?’

‘What is it, Margaret?’ demanded a loud male voice.

‘Darling,’ she said clearly, half turning her head away from them, ‘could you come here for just a second?’

A man as tall as she was, but a great deal broader, emerged
into the hall behind her. He was still wiping his lips with a large white damask napkin. Mrs Crackenfield smiled faintly at the two police officers and left them with her husband. They saw her move silently down the hall, brush his arm with her hand and move into the room where he had come from.

‘Well? What is all this?’ he barked, clearly angry.

Caroline went through the usual performance with her warrant card.

‘Haven’t we been bothered enough? My son is dead and buried. The whole terrible story is surely over now. Must you come worrying us again?’

‘This has nothing to do with your son’s death,’ Caroline said, not quite accurately. ‘Could we come inside? We need to ask you a few questions. Perhaps your study would be suitable?’

Femur moved up to join her on the top step. He could carry quite a presence when he chose and she was glad to see that tonight he had chosen. He seemed as powerful as she’d ever known him. Brigadier Crackenfield yielded, turning away to precede them to the stairs.

His study was the small room over the front door, which had been turned into a bathroom in most of the similar houses Caroline had known. There was room for a big Carlton House desk in the window and both sides of the room were lined with books. There was a strong smell of pipe smoke, unlike the rest of the house, which smelt only of flowers and polish.

There was a tilting swivel chair in front of the desk and a velvet-coloured wing chair in one corner. That was all.

Brigadier Crackenfield sat at his desk, swivelling around to face them. Femur gestured to Caroline to take the wing chair and he himself leaned against the bookcase nearest the door. Caroline opened her mouth to start, but caught Femur’s eye and let him speak.

He did it well, she had to admit, sounding clear and unemotional as he ran through the few facts surrounding Malcolm Chaze’s death, then followed them with everything they had learned about the dead man’s connection with the family.

Crackenfield sat with a very straight back, listening. At the end, he took his pipe from the pocket of his suit jacket and held the bowl comfortably in his hand. He made no effort to fill or light the pipe.

‘Admirably put, Chief Inspector. But I do not understand why you have forced your way into my house, interrupting my guests’ dinner, to tell me all this.’

‘Because we have to talk to everyone who could have been involved in Mr Chaze’s death,’ said Femur, committing himself at a much earlier stage than Caroline thought either right or sensible.

She saw from Crackenfield’s slack jaw and staring eyes that he was dumbfounded.

‘Don’t be a fool, man. Do you really think that if I had stooped to take revenge on that man for what he did to my family I would have chosen something like this?’

‘No?’

‘Good God, no. Think about it, Femur. I had only to lift the telephone and talk to Central Office to have him blacklisted by the Party. I had only to talk to a journalist, and, God knows, we’ve had enough of them sniffing around since my son’s death, to have Malcolm Chaze blazoned all over the front pages as the hypocritical blackguard he was. Why should I of all people want to have him shot?’

‘I’d have said you had plenty of reason. Either of your two other scenarios would have involved publicity for your family and the further blackening of your son’s name.’

‘My son had no reputation left.’ The quietness of his voice did nothing to sweeten its bitterness. ‘He had not had any
kind of public role, not even a job, for over twenty years. I am retired. My daughter lives hundreds of miles away under her married name. None of us would have been damaged by the publicity.’

He looked at his pipe, polishing its side on his handkerchief. When he let his eyes lift again, Caroline saw that they were bleaker than ever.

‘It is possibly the worst, certainly I hope the last, humiliation my son has wreaked upon me that the police should come to my house to accuse me of murder.’